The armored motorcade roared through the rain-slicked streets of lower Manhattan, returning to the Tribeca glass tower under heavy tactical escort. The drive back from Brighton Beach had been thick with volatile, suffocating adrenaline. In the backseat of the Escalade, behind the tinted privacy partition, Maksim had not released Anya’s hand for a single fraction of a second. His large, scarred fingers had remained clamped over hers, his thumb tracing…
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